"I thought of it all last night, Aunt Priscilla, and all this morning, and—I have made up my mind."
"You mean to write—?"
"Yes."
"To tell Mr. Cassilis that you will—marry him?"
"Yes."
But now Miss Priscilla rose, and, next moment, was kneeling beside
Anthea's chair.
"Oh my dear!" she pleaded, "you that I love like my own flesh and blood,—don't! Oh Anthea! don't do what can never be undone. Don't give your youth and beauty to one who can never—never make you happy,—Oh Anthea—!"
"Dear Aunt Priscilla, I would rather marry one I don't love than have to live beholden all my days to a man that I—hate!" Now, as she spoke, though her embrace was as ready, and her hands as gentle as ever, yet Miss Priscilla saw that her proud face was set, and stern. So, she presently rose, sighing, and taking her little crutch stick, tapped dolefully away, and left Anthea to write her letter.
And now, hesitating no more, Anthea took up her pen, and wrote,—surely a very short missive for a love-letter. And, when she had folded, and sealed it, she tossed it aside, and laying her arms upon the table, hid her face, with a long, shuddering sigh.
In a little while, she rose, and taking up the letter, went out to find Adam; but remembering that he had gone to Cranbrook with Small Porges, she paused irresolute, and then turned her steps toward the orchard. Hearing voices, she stopped again, and glancing about, espied the Sergeant, and Miss Priscilla. She had given both her hands into the Sergeant's one, great, solitary fist, and he was looking down at her, and she was looking up at him, and upon the face of each, was a great and shining joy.